


Come Together, Fall Apart, 2014

by Callmeisolde



Series: Matt and Nat Take New York [5]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Black Widow/Daredevil - Freeform, Don't @ Me, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Marvel Universe, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt Murdock/Natasha Romanoff - Freeform, Matt Murdock/Natasha Romanova - Freeform, Matt and Nat Take NY, POV Matt Murdock, POV Natasha Romanov, being dramatic for drama's sake, character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmeisolde/pseuds/Callmeisolde
Summary: A belated continuation of the "Matt and Nat Take New York" series. I wrote most of this is 2017 and would rather it see the light of day than continue to languish, especially because I have more ideas for further works...Natasha continues to weave in and out of Matt's life, leaving him hopeful and happy until things take an unexpectedly dark turn as both are forced to recon with their own helplessness.Can stand alone, but follows previous works in the series, Winter in New York, A Chance Encounter, and A Crazier Then Average Year.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Natasha Romanov
Series: Matt and Nat Take New York [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/878316
Comments: 27
Kudos: 48





	1. Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a majority of this fic in 2017, hard to believe it's already been 3 years. It originally never saw the light of day because I got way too caught up writing some over dramatic, near death fun and thought no one would care to read it. That said, I hope you enjoy it, because I have some ideas for extra angst given the end of Daredevil S3 and Endgame. Stay tuned lovelies! 
> 
> As always, comments are joy. You can find my Matt and Nat playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/63HvEXQSdF12PlFK0x0axE?si=iugGNYAISWWHGXL_8TqSYQ

**Matt**

  
She introduces herself as Natalia with a full Russian accent. The wig she’s wearing smells faintly of plastic and some kind of chemical spray. The bangs brush the tops of her thick rimmed, plastic glasses. She’s wearing a cotton dress, skirt full so that it rubs against his jeans when they walk arm in arm. It swishes back and forth with every even step. The neckline is low, Matt can smell the tang of metal around her neck and hear the links of a chain shifting against bare skin as she breathes. She’s wearing nylon stockings that rub together at the thigh. Her high heels raise her height four inches and make a clicking sound against the tile as the hostess leads them to the table for six at the back of the room. 

Foggy leads with Matt’s hand at his elbow as they weave through the noise of other patrons. The cloud of Natasha’s perfume drifts ahead with the hostess. Foggy nudges Matt’s shoulder, his heart rate has risen since Natasha shook his hand and a wide grin thins out the sound of his voice when he whispers — “Holy shit Matt.” 

“Hmm?” Matt smiles, feigning innocence like he doesn’t know perfectly well that every man in the bar is turning on their ass to get a good look at Natasha walking by. 

“You are such a dick.” Foggy whisper-laughs. 

When they reach the table and the hostess leaves, Foggy steps up to make introductions. He motions across the smell of sticky, dried beer and wood polish to a set of heartbeats, one a little fast for resting, the other quick and light. “This is Don and Alissa, colleagues of mine who I’ve been wanting to introduce to Matt. Annnd this is Natalia and Matt Murdock, my soon-to-be business partner.” 

Handshakes are exchanged, Natasha keeps up the accent as she deftly alternates between shaking hands and, embarrassingly, guiding Matt to an empty chair. He grimaces as he sits, she’s laying it on a little thick. 

The conversation is dull. Natasha bobs her head along—but doesn’t interject. She’s playing up beautiful and dumb, foreign and silent and it’s making Matt uncomfortable. He’s aware with every turn of the conversation that she’s ten times smarter than anyone else in the room. She’s aware of it too, he can tell by the way her heartbeat slows and speeds. She’s dealing with the boredom by changing her breathing patterns. Foggy is the only one who directs questions her way, deliberately attempting to draw her out of her shell. Probably probing to understand what Matt sees in her, since physical appearance isn’t really his top priority. 

“You, uh, read much Natalia?” 

“Da, very much.” She leans forward, placing a hand on Foggy’s leg. His heart rate skyrockets while conversation continues around them, momentarily forgotten. “I study theology. I love the classics. Jane Austen.” 

“Ah, ya, everybody loves the Austen.” 

“Lady Susan?” 

“Uh, Keira Knightley?” Foggy tilts his head, the end of his sentence lilting up an octave. Matt chuckles into his beer. 

“Matt said you were funny.” Natasha laughs. It’s her real laugh, the soft one that feels like warmth on your face in the middle of a snowstorm. Matt smiles just to hear it. He’s been thinking about this for awhile, Foggy and Natasha. Having secrets from Foggy is something both foreign and too familiar. It doesn’t sit right, always uncomfortable when Matt shines any kind of attention on it. Of course, he’s paying out his nose for this dinner. Might regret it in a few hours. 

“ _A favour for a favour.” Natasha’s breathy voice a thin vapour against his neck. “I’ll come meet your lawyer friends, but you have to do something in return.”_

_“And what would that be?” Her chest is pressed so close to his, he can feel her heart beating straight into his own._

_“It’s a secret.” A soft press of lips to his cheek. He reels as she retracts the closeness of her body, leaving him suddenly cold._

Laughter across the table, Foggy wins over everyone eventually. Natasha’s slender, calloused fingers on Matt’s arm, she raises her glass with the other hand and he raises his to meet it. The smell of vodka rises towards her lips. 

“What are we toasting?” Matt grins, can’t help it. This is the closest his two lives have ever been to each other without giving him a migraine. 

“Friends.” Foggy interjects. 

Natasha squeezes Matt’s arm when she drinks. 

When their waitress abandons the table, Matt meanders his way to the bar to get a drink. Foggy appears behind him, a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“OK buddy, spill.” 

Matt taps his fingers against the bar impatiently. “I have no idea to what you are referring.” 

“Objection. Natalia. How long has this been going on? 

Matt shrugs noncommittally. “A while. But it’s casual Foggy. It’s off and on.” 

“Casual, hmm. Not worth mentioning to your best friend?” 

“I’m mentioning it now?”

“She’s amazing, man. She’s funny, smart, beyond gorgeous…” 

“I’ve heard.” Matt grins. 

“She make you happy?” 

The bartender slides Matt’s drinks across the bar, Foggy steps forwards to stop them flying off the oiled wood. Matt’s happy for the momentary distraction, he’s never considered the question that plainly before. 

“Ya. She makes me happy.” His tone is casual but he’s no good at controlling his face, he has to bite down on the corner of his stupid grin. 

Foggy claps him on the shoulder again. A warmth blooms in Matt’s chest, a smile tugs the muscles around his mouth to his ears. 

“Lock it down my friend. Lock it down.” 

Matt shakes his head, picks up his drinks. “It’s not like that.” 

“Why the hell not?” 

“She works. A lot. All over the place. She’s only in New York a few days a month, if that. We’ve gone six months, more without seeing each other.” 

“Man, if she makes you this happy, you’ll make it work.” 

Foggy helpfully carries one of Matt’s drinks, freeing up Matt’s hand to hold Foggy’s elbow as he guides him back to the table. Matt’s heads spinning, can’t put the thought aside — it’s not that easy. 

**Natasha**

  
It takes her awhile to make sense of his expression, his mannerisms. At first, she takes him for being drunk. He’s grinning ear to ear, laughter easy and light, waiting at the edges of his smile where she can easily tease it loose. His body is relaxed, he presses against her as they walk arm in arm. He turns towards her when she’s speaking. Wets his lips. 

The walk isn’t short. Doesn’t need to be. They twine their arms and step in sync with each other. Matt’s turned the full sun of his focus on her, warm and open in his face and laugh. In return, Natasha guides them. Fills in the gaps. Sidesteps an errant garbage can, steers them away from a group of smokers. 

He’s not drunk. Not rambling or stumbling. He’s giddy. She’s never known him to be giddy. 

At the apartment they fall into bed together. Matt wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly to him. Tracing the curve of her shoulder and following the dotted freckles down her arm. “When do I get to meet your people ‘Tasha?” 

She shrugs, his hand falls to her side. There’s this softness in Matt’s face that drives her crazy. Like he can’t quite school his expressions. Maybe it comes from not being able to see the expressions of others, the guarded smiles and frowns. The disappointment. The fear. Natasha’s careful pursing of her lips lost on him. She searches him for an ounce of deception, an inch of selfishness, a hint of some motivation other than the enjoyment of her company. “Maybe,” she smiles, shaking her head of those thoughts. The ones that insist, he’s going to leave you. He’s going to blame you. He’s going to hate you. She shakes those loose and she says, “someday soon.” 


	2. That time your heart stopped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn when Matt is injured on a run with Natasha, she does the only thing she can think to do -- and takes him to Avengers Tower.

**Matt**

  
Sulfur and charcoal, gunpowder. The muzzle flash a blast of heat like molten fire searing his flesh at close range. He doesn’t feel the bullet. Not at first. The impact pushes him backwards into bricks, the wall keeping him on his feet. Adrenaline spiking, blood hot and pumping too fast. Too fast. He backhands the gunman and the momentum from the swing sends him falling forwards, can’t stop his descent, falling through nothing until he hits the pavement with his face. All his breath expelled. The pavement is wet and coppery smelling. Now the pain. 

Too much pain. 

He’s face up and Natasha is compressing her hands on his chest. He can’t feel her heartbeat, but he can feel his own. Blood is pounding in his ears and he feels dizzy and lightheaded even though he’s lying down. There’s something under his head, it smells like wax and vanilla. Natasha’s jacket? She’s talking. How long has she been talking to him? 

“Matt, can you hear me?” 

He nods his head and the world spins, he gasps. The sound is wet. His mouth is full of liquid that tastes like copper pennies. His breathing is a rattle. 

“I can’t take you to a hospital Matt, do you understand?” 

He does. He does understand. No hospitals. Too many questions, his identity gets out, they'll reopen all of his and Foggy’s cases, close their fledgling practice. Foggy's out a business partner. Maybe goes to jail. Aiding and abetting. What Matt does as The Devil doesn’t count as legal. No hospitals. 

But he’s dying. That much is clear. Close range, large caliber bullet to the chest. He’s bleeding out. Unclear if he’ll die from blood loss before he drowns. Where pain filled every inch of his body a moment before, it’s ebbing away now. That’s not as good as it feels.

She can’t take him to the hospital. But he’s dying. 

He reaches down and raises a trembling hand to her wrist, holds it gently so he can feel her heartbeat. 109. Finally got you, Natasha. 

“S’ok.” He tells her. “S’ok, Nat.” 

“Hey, stay with me, danger boy. You’re going to be fine.” Her voice is steady, doesn’t waver, doesn’t betray a thing. But her heartbeat says lie. 

**Natasha**

  
“He needs a transfusion,” Bruce says. 

“Or six.” From Tony.

Tony had arrived within minutes — thank god — one of his suits kept Matt alive long enough to transport him here, to Avengers Tower. Now they’ve got Matt out of the suit and onto a bed and it’s bad. Natasha can see that it’s bad. She shakes her head to dispel the spiraling thoughts, trying to stay in the room. Stay in the moment. “He's B positive.” 

“Got it.” 

Matt’s lips are moving, he mumbles something with a question mark at the end. 

“I know everything about you.” Natasha interprets him with ease, keeping her full attention on Matt’s face even when Tony shoots Bruce an urgent look. “Why are you still surprised,” she teases. “It's how I show I care.”

“‘Tasha…” Matt’s head rocks side to side in a minute gesture, he mumbles her name. “‘Tasha…” 

“What is it, Matt? I'm right here.”

His grip on her wrist starts to slacken, his eyes are softly closed. “I can't see you.”

Natasha wets her lips. Trying to ignore the continual flurry of activity as Bruce takes scans and Tony directs some kind of machine into place near Matt’s head. “Matt?” She says in a whisper, so the others can't hear. His eyes don't open again. They've drifted shut and now they won't open. 

"Matt?" Just a little louder, because his senses might be on the fritz. His jaw is slack, lips soft and parted, specked with dark red blood. His features are soft, softly closed eyes and parted red mouth and smooth brow. She's watched him sleep before, he looks like that. Everything else is blurry, nothing else matters in this moment. His eye lashes. They matter, long and pressed in a soft curve against his lower lids. 

"Matt?" And this time it rips out of her in a raw red cry. The blurry edges of the room crash into focus and she understands he's stopped breathing. Tony is working furiously, Bruce is doing something with a machine. They fit something around Matt's slack face and machines are beeping and suddenly Natasha has to get out of that room. She shoulders past the actual doctors as they rush in, finally. Raises a hand to Clint, hovering in the hall, and ducks past his concerned expression. Stumbles to the elevator and pounds her palm against the call button. 

Clint jogs down the hallway towards her. “Nat, wait, where are you…”

“I have to get out of here.” She wheezes. She isn't breathing either. She's flushed and clammy and her heart is beating against her chest like a drum. 

“Natasha.” Clint takes a step closer, like he’s approaching a wild animal. “Don't go, okay, don't do this to yourself again.”

“I have to leave.” She says, firmly. 

“Hey,” he reaches for her arm and she recoils. 

“Don't touch me!” 

Clint raises both hands in surrender. “Nat, breath OK.”

“No! I can't just…” She lets out a deep breath. Steadying herself. She feels unspooled, unsettled. She feels unmade. “Everyone who touches me, Clint.” 

He gets uncharacteristically somber for a moment. “Not me.”

“Not yet.” She gasps. 

“Look, I can see it needs to be said -- even though it shouldn't -- this isn't your fault Natasha.” 

The elevator dings. She gets in and pounds the button. Clint grimaces, dodges the closing elevator door. Natasha paces as far as she can away from him until her back comes up against the cold metal of the elevator wall. 

“Look,” Clint continues less cautiously now that she’s trapped. “Is this a Russian thing? Did some Nonna tell you that you were cursed? Because that's not true, Nat. The Black Widow is not a metaphor. I mean it is, but not like that. It's not... sex voodoo.” 

Natasha, in spite of herself, almost laughs. Instead she lets out a held breath and shakes her head. “Everything you're saying right now is highly offensive.” 

“I'm bad at this. I should have made Steve do it. But here I am, reminding you that we are all grown ass, consenting adults when we go out there fighting bad guys. It's not your fault when one of us gets blasted to hell. It's not your bad luck. Or your gypsy curse. It's a dangerous profession. That's all.”

He’s playing the humour card, it’s an old one. But it usually does the trick. Natasha feels the edges of her careful composure, reaches for it in a move that can only be described as mental gymnastics. “The Romani are a persecuted people,” she chides. 

“Nat.”

She nods. “I’m hearing you. I'm processing.”

“We've talked about this before.”

Natasha nods, nods again. Working up her courage to make her confession. “I ... love him.”

She doubles over, hands to knees. Saying it out loud makes it feel real. She had, for a moment, thought it would make it easier to bear. But she was wrong. 

“Shit.”

She nods emphatically. Shit. When she reaches out, Clint takes her hand in both of his. She grimaces. “I’m sorry I didn't tell you about him sooner.”

“Or at all.” He chides. 

“Or at all.”

“You still love me?”

Natasha manages to laugh around the lump in her throat. “It's not a competition. But yes.” 

Clint gets quiet for a moment, eyes softening. “OK. What can I do?” 

Natasha doesn't know if there's anything in the world that is going to make the next few hours easier to bear. 

“Could you... stay with him? Just, be there?”

“Nat, he doesn't even know me.” 

“But I can't do it Clint. I can't. And someone should.”

Clint steps closer and his hands come up to squeeze her arms under the shoulders. He tips his head forwards and touches their foreheads together. “I'm on it.” 

The elevator doors open and Natasha steps out, purposeful and without looking back. Clint watches her go for a second before hitting the button for their previous floor. 

#

Sparring with a hologram doesn't count for much, not really, but it does stop Natasha’s brain from spinning out of control. Fighting is about action, not thinking. It's act and react, and try to do more of the former than the latter. A hologram doesn't think for itself. Actions randomized, but still to some extent predictable in its finite set of abilities. Not like people. People surprise you. 

Come on Matt. Surprise me. 

The hologram gets a jab in and Natasha reels backwards a step. She breathes all of it out in a woosh and ducks below another punch, kicking out her leg and tripping the opponent. The doors to the gym trigger open and Tony walks in. 

“Pause.” She tells it. 

The hologram freezes in the middle of flipping back to its stomach and propelling itself to standing. Natasha grabs her water bottle from the edge of the mats and takes a swig. She wipes a streak of sweat from her collarbone, following Tony with her eyes. He looks tired. Worn out. There's none of the signature Tony swagger, none of the mirth in his eyes. Just the insecurity. The pain that the jokes are built to hide. Natasha's brain stutters, thoughts firing all at once. 

"He's stable." Tony says. Hands in his pockets. 

Natasha takes three steady steps, sits down hard on a bench. Let's out a held breath. Long and barely controlled so her lungs ache after with the emptiness. 

"There's bad news too." He seems to be steeling himself for it, looks away. "Bruce suspects brain damage. His pupils..."

Natasha smiles. She shakes her head. Tony tips his to the side. "Something I'm missing."

"He's blind." Natasha takes another breath, this one easier than the last. "No light perception." 

Tony looks equally relieved. He wanders over, lighter. Sits down next to her on the bench. 

"Holy shit I was freaking out. Jesus, blind? Blind blind?"

Natasha nods again. 

"How the hell does he do the ..." He mimes flipping over. "And the..." Then jabbing the air. 

"A long story."

They sit quiet for a few minutes. "I'll have to make a report, you know, to Fury."

"I'll do it." 

"This isn't one of those things where you say you're going to do it but then don't and I pretend you did even though I know ..."

"I'll make a report. Fury knows about him Tony."

"Oh. Alright." 

"He's going to be OK?"

"Long as he wakes up in the next 24 hours. That's what Bruce says. Right now, we've done what we can."

He goes to pat her knee, thinks better of it and patts the air instead.

"You gonna relieve Barton?"

She squeezes the bench, leaning forward like she's about to push off. Grimaces. "He's going to be OK?"

"Ya." Tony says, voice firm. "He's going to be OK."

**Matt**

  
His consciousness ebbs and flows for a while. How long, exactly, is impossible to determine. The first thing he remembers is the smell. Antiseptic, bleach and metal. Blood, old and new. Sound comes in waves, in and out like the tide. Electric buzzing everywhere, a constant humm. Beeping, clicking, whirring sounds that burrow into his brain. The sounds build and build until he thinks he can’t take it any longer and when they begin to phase out all that’s left is the pain. His head hurts. A lot. Hurts like someone broke an aluminum bat over the back of his skull. His body aches. A throbbing hurt that says ‘you’re alive’ with every thrum of his aching, tired heart. 

The sounds start to build again, and this time he tries to categorize it, parse it out and give it meaning. The electric hum is coming from the … walls? The machines that also beep and click? Everything is making that sound, even the light bulbs in the ceiling. Especially the light bulbs in the ceiling. He can see the brightness of the light blooming in his brain like an atom bomb. He knows that can’t be right. Can only grimace and moan. There are voices then, too many voices. But not enough, he thinks, for this to be a hospital. Footsteps, how many footsteps? Maybe two, maybe three? The voices… all male. One of them is coming from the ceiling. Where is Natasha? He wonders, as he spirals back into the dark, is she safe? 

#

He’s led from the dark by a voice. Following it as it lilts and flows, raises to laughter, dips to a whisper. 

“So they said, give it up, just like that and Nat, she doesn't like that at all. Gets real serious, you know, the deadly kind of serious like her eyes are gonna bore right though your head, and she smiles. Like, I don't think so. And she springs into action. She took out the whole group of ‘em before I could even get my hands untied.” 

It’s not a voice he recognizes, not one that’s familiar. But the words —the man is telling him about Natasha. A story he’s never heard. The constant talking floats in and out at times, Matt remembers Budapest.

  
#

She doesn’t come on that first day. Not that he would have noticed. She doesn’t come on the second. It’s the third day he’s been cooped up in the little room with the machines and the floating ceiling voice that’s apparently named Jarvis, and the man who introduces himself as Clint Barton — Hawkeye, Matt knows— before Natasha appears in the hallway. He hears the elevator open first, then her careful, confident footsteps. She’s breathing as steady and evenly as ever, her heartbeat is a confident, plodding drum. He wishes he could smell her perfume over the prevailing scents of disinfectant, metal, blood. Then, there it is, the orange and bergamot scent of Natasha. Just before the door cracks and Clint stops talking — blessedly. 

“Hey,” he says. “There she is.” 

A whiff of Natasha’s shampoo says she is gesturing with her head. Clint’s chair scrapes backwards and he stands, pats Matt’s shoulder in a way that must be intended to be encouraging. Then he leaves the room. Matt tries to sit up in the bed, a slender, calloused hand settles lightly on his shoulder and he relents. Laying back. 

“‘Tasha.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier.” 

“‘Tasha Foggy’s going to be sending out search parties and…” 

“I texted him, told him you had an emergency you had to leave the city for.” 

Matt sighs, suppressing a chuckle. “He’s never going to believe that. As far as he knows I’ve never even left Manhattan.” 

“You’ll think of something.” 

She moves a few wires to the side, settles on the edge of the bed. Her weight makes the mattress dip slightly. 

Matt takes a deep breath. He’s been thinking of exactly what he would say to her since the drugs started to wane and his thoughts started to fall into their proper order. He had considered thank you. He had considered, where were you? Now all he’s left with is a vague sense of anger. Of regret. Of fear. “Natasha,” he starts and her body tenses slightly. “You know what my identity means to me, it’s the single most important thing in everything I do. You know that. Bringing me here…” 

“You were dying.” She says quietly, softly. 

“I know.” He manages. Swallowing. Would he have rather died? Maybe. Maybe not. There are few things in life he wouldn’t allow if it meant keeping Foggy safe.

“I’m sorry if — for a moment — protecting your identity wasn’t more important than your life.” 

“Tasha…” 

“Don’t ‘Tasha me.” Her voice takes on a hard edge, a steel as strong and sharp as a dagger. She’s prepared for this argument. Matt would call it intimidating the witness if her hand wasn’t so gentle, so softly placed on his arm. “They’ve seen your face. They know your first name. They know you’re Daredevil. And they know you’re blind. They’ll figure out the Murdock bit. The lawyer bit, eventually. You can either trust them — because I trust them — or you can take your chances alone.” She rallies with a deep breath. “I’m telling you, every one of them is a good man. A hero. They’re not going to betray whatever small trust they’ve been given here. They’re not.” 

His response sounds weak, even to his ears. “Not even to SHIELD?”

“SHIELD already has a file on you as thick as your face, Matt. All they’re missing is the right face.” 

That’s an argument he hadn’t anticipated. One he doesn’t like to contemplate. “I don’t want them to get it.” He says, quietly. Trying not to sound like he’s begging. 

“Fine. They won’t.” 

“You can’t know that.” 

“What is my heart saying.” She takes his hand, gentle and careful around the IV’s and the cables. Places it on her chest above her heart so that he doesn’t have to concentrate to hear, to feel. Her heart is as sure and as strong and as confident as the day when they met. Out for a walk in the snow. 

“All it means is you believe what you’re saying.” 

“Can’t that be enough?” She wants to know. Soft again, holding his hand still like he’s an anchor. Like she doesn’t want to let go. 

Maybe. Maybe it can. 


	3. The Winter Soldier

**Matt**

  
“This is it, last day as corporate lackeys, first day as partners!” 

Foggy claps Matt on the back, grinning. It’s a light even in Matt’s dark sensory world, Foggy is so bright sometimes, he’s hard to be around. Matt feels his face stretch into a smile. He’s just completed his last day as a junior lawyer at a big corporate law firm, there was a party. With cake. Fawning paralegals and being handed embossed business cards. Remember us when you’re some big hotshot. His boss had said, clapping him on the back. Matt could read his heartbeat saying lie. 

“Aren’t we counting the chickens a little early?” He rolls his shoulder out from under Foggy’s hand, everything is a little sore right now. Nights have been busy. Everything ramping up as winter dwindles to spring. “Maybe we should wait until we at least have matching desks to declare ourselves legal partners.” 

“Hey, no, don’t you dare Murdock. You are harshing my vibe. I quit a prestigious law firm for you.” Foggy did quit a prestigious law firm. More prestigious than Matt’s, at least. It had come complete with a private office and a desk chair with wheels. A filing cabinet. One with files in it. “Sure I was filing reports and filling out paperwork all day, but it was prestigious! I had business cards!” 

Matt sighs. “Business cards. Add them to the list.” 

“Curses, the list continues to balloon in size.” Foggy waves his hands, “How is it that nothing ever gets crossed off the list?” 

“Business license is in the mail.” Matt offers helpfully. 

“Can’t cross it off until it’s in my doughy little hands.” 

“OK. OK. I will say we are partners and, in return, you will add that to — and cross it off — the list.” 

Foggy ruffles around in his briefcase for a moment and Matt hears him uncap a pen. “Ahhh, the sweet scent of accomplishment.” 

“What does accomplishment smell like?” 

“Grape sharpie. Catch up.”

Foggy holds up a glass, it’s early yet for scotch, but they’re celebrating. Matt raises his two fingers of Macallan. “To partnerships.” 

“To Nelson and Murdock.” Foggy takes a sip. 

Something happening on the television behind the bar catches Matt’s attention. Gunshots, harsh and staccato interrupting the reporters lilting voice. There’s the sound of helicopter blades biting the air, wind noise muffling more words. 

“Hey, Matt, you’re doing that thing.” 

“What thing?” 

“That thing you do where your face gets all pointy. What’s going on in that head?” 

Can’t have heard that right. Too much ambient noise? “Ah, just trying to hear the TV Fog. Is something…going on?” 

Foggy reaches behind the bar and fishes out the television remote. Matt hears Josie cluck disapprovingly from the other end, but she doesn’t move to intervene. Foggy turns up the volume. 

“What we’re witnessing appears to be a team of black clad, armed men, possibly SWAT or special forces, opening fire on an unknown assailant.” 

“Fill in the gaps Foggy?” 

“Ugh, it says Live from DC. I can see the Washington monument in some of the shots. Helicopter footage is a little iffy, there’s about a dozen special forces guys…” 

“We have conflicting reports of both Captain America and Black Widow on the ground. Some reports claim special forces are in pursuit of the two Avengers…” 

“Foggy…” 

“Ya, ya, definitely see Black Widow. I don’t see Captain America anywhere. Ton of debris, looks like a bus crash? There’s some guy wearing black and he’s got a mask on. He’s chasing Black Widow up Virginia Avenue.” 

“Confirmed, we have Captain America, Black Widow and an unknown third party pursued by a black clad special forces team led by an unidentified masked individual, possibly enhanced. The pursuers have opened fire on civilians following an altercation on the overpass directly below us. We’re moving now to follow Black Widow and the masked assailant.” 

Matt tries to pick out the sounds so distant they’re pinpricks in a dark void. The sound of short, fast breaths expelled with each footfall. There’s too much noise on the video, wind and mechanical buzzing and helicopter blades whipping in circles. There’s the crackling of flames on the ground and the screams of civilians. He can’t hear Natasha, can’t pick her out. A rifle blast, once, twice. 

“Fuck,” Foggy breathes. “He shot her.” 

Matt’s chest expands, hurts. His body screaming at his brain to find the injury. Nothing there but fear. “What?” 

“She’s hit, I think. Shit.” 

“Natasha Romanoff, AKA The Black Widow, one of five Avengers, has just been shot by an unknown assailant. Captain America has appeared below to intervene.” 

“Foggy, I need more detail.” 

“Um, about what? It looks pretty hectic down there.” 

“Nat...Black Widow. What’s she doing? Where was she shot? Is someone with her?” 

“I honestly can’t see much Matt, it’s from a helicopter. Footage is pretty blurry.” 

Matt gets up so fast he almost topples the stool over behind him. It scrapes the ground and he senses heads turning in his direction. 

Foggy’s heart does that two beat elevation that says he’s worried, that Matt’s acting strangely. “You seem kinda worked up about this buddy.” 

“Ya,” Matt takes a breath. Tries not to think about what’s playing out now on live television. DC seems infinitely far away, might as well be on the other side of the world. He’s helpless. Utterly helpless, like he swore he would never be again. 

“After a tense showdown with the masked man, Captain America, Steve Rogers, has been apprehended by what appears to be Special Forces troops. Along with Natasha Romanoff, AKA Black Widow and a third unknown individual. All three have been removed to a black van and are being taken from the scene. Local police forces are moving in to cordon off the area and begin directing cleanup after a tense standoff between an enhanced individual and the two avengers.” 

Matt swallows. “I need to go.” 

“What? Matt…” 

“Sorry Fog, I forgot I need to … mail something. Paperwork.” 

“Business related?” Foggy asks hopefully. 

“You bet.” Matt turns towards the door and takes a stumbling step, feeling the back of a stool and stepping around it with a grimace of impatience. 

“And later…” Foggy calls behind him. 

“I won’t miss the strategy session. I’ll be there. Your place right?” 

“Ya.” 

Matt waves over his shoulder and presses onto the street. Nothing has changed in the hour and a half he and Foggy were inside Josie's bar. The smells, sounds, taste on the air are all the same. Light is beginning to dim as shadows draw cold across the sidewalk. Foot traffic has increased, road noise is louder, but it’s no different from any day on this street corner at this time. 

But everything is different. 

For the first time, Matt knows that somewhere, at this very moment, Natasha is injured. Natasha’s life is in danger. Practically speaking, he knows that these two things are also no different than any day on this planet at this time, but right now, he’s acutely aware of it. His brain is hot with it. His body aches in sympathetic agony. His breathing comes in panicked gasps. He loosens his tie. Get it together Matt. Think like a world class assassin. 

His apartment isn’t far. Feet carry him, cane tapping the way and keeping the rest of the foot traffic at a wide berth. He takes the stairs two at a time. Slams the apartment door behind him without meaning to. Makes quick work of the padlock on the storage cubby under the stairs and pulls out the green trunk where he keeps the mask. His burner phone is on top of the pile. He paces away from the cubby while it dials. 

“Leave a message at the tone.” a robotic voice instructs. 

“Natasha, It’s me. I saw what’s happening on the news and I need to know you’re OK. Text or call when you get this.” 

He hangs up the phone and resists the urge to chuck it across the room. Deep breaths Matt. You have more control than this. Wrong. He has no control. Everything is spinning and churning just out of reach. He hasn’t seen or heard from Natasha in months. Not since his own very close brush with death. Every text he sent since then went unanswered. She hasn’t tapped at his window or wandered through the roof access door. And now she’s in DC and she’s been shot on live television and Matt is helpless. 

Who else can he call? Their list of mutual contacts is painfully short. Actually it’s non existent. There’s only one person who Matt can even think of. 

“Stark Tower, New York, how may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to Tony Stark.” 

“Is he expecting your call?”

“Uh, no.” 

“Who’s calling?” 

“Can you tell him it’s… Matt?”   
“A last name?” 

“Just Matt.” 

“Uh, one second please.” 

Matt paces while he waits, the receptionist's voice clicks back on the line, “I’m sorry sir, your name is not on the list of approved callers.” 

“Wait, I…” 

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to connect you today. Goodbye!” 

Fuck. Matt grits his teeth. He fishes in his suit jacket pocket and pulls out the stack of business cards from his office goodbye party. He runs his fingers over the embossed letters, discarding the cards to the ground as he flicks through them. Finds the one he’s looking for and dials the number. 

“You’ve reached the law offices of Stark Industries. How may I direct your call?” 

Matt runs his fingers over the letters a second time, “Uh, Lara Oslow please?” 

“May I ask who’s calling?” 

“Matt Murdock.” 

There’s a click, a few beats of elevator music and then the line connects. “Mr. Murdock, It was lovely to meet you this afternoon.” 

“Uh, you too Lara.” 

“I have to admit I didn’t expect to hear from you before the day was out.” 

“I’m sorry to be calling you for a favour this early.” 

“A favour?” 

“I need to be connected to Mr. Stark. Urgently. I have an important matter to discuss with him regarding ah… an employee of his. A client.” 

“Mr. Murdock, this is highly unusual.” 

“I understand, really, but it’s urgent.” 

“I can connect you to the head of my department, that’s the closest I can get you.” 

Matt spends the next hour and a half working his way up the chain of command. It’s not until he evokes the name Natalie Rushman as the name of his ‘client’ that he begins to make progress. By the time he’s being connected to Tony Stark, rumours of a sexual harassment lawsuit by a former employee must already be swirling around Stark Tower. The readiness with which Tony’s lawyers grasp the insinuation is vaguely concerning. 

Finally, there’s a click as the line connects and a voice that Matt recognizes materializes on the end of the line. “This had better be good.” 

“Tony Stark?”

“Ya, who the fuck is Matt Murdock and why am I taking this call?” 

“Natasha Romanoff.” 

A pause, Matt can hear the other man’s heartbeat through the line. Strange noises like maybe Tony’s on an airplane. “Is this about the news?” 

“Yes. You saw it?” 

“I did. Who are you and why am I talking to you about Natasha?” 

“I’m a friend. You and I met under… unfortunate circumstances a few months back. In New York.” 

“Matt as in… Natasha’s Matt.” 

“Ya.” Matt sits down, it feels like the first time in hours. “Natasha’s Matt. I just want to know if she’s alright. If I can help her in any way.” 

“If she needs a lawyer, I’ll know who to call.” 

“Come on Tony.” Matt gets back to his feet. “You saved my life. You can trust me. Natasha isn’t answering her phone and she just got shot on live TV. I need to know what’s going on.” 

“I’m on my way to DC, OK. I don’t know any more than you do. So chill. Let Natasha do her job. There’s nothing a blind lawyer in Hell’s Kitchen can do for her right now, except stay out of the way.” 

The line goes dead. 

Matt sits down hard. This time, he doesn’t get back up. 

Not for a long time. 

  
**Natasha**

  
Nick looks sideways at her. “You’ve been quiet.” 

She shakes her head slightly, pursing her lips. “I’ve been shot.” 

“You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet.” He allows, “For having been shot.” 

Natasha leans back. They’re in a transport. Steve and Maria sitting on one end, and Nick and Natasha across from each other a few seats over. It’s not exactly a time for private conversations. Not that there’s been a lot of time for that. What with the saving of the world and all. “The file, Nick.” She says quietly, “The one on my friend in Hell’s Kitchen. Has it been compromised?” 

He thinks for a moment, she pretends not to notice his concerned expression. “I don’t know, Natasha. It’s possible.” 

“Tell me.” She’s not letting him get away with half truths, not this time. 

“It was encrypted to me, protected by my passcodes, but they stripped my passcodes and deleted me from the system. It would be reasonable to assume they’ve retained access to my files.” He makes that face, the one that makes it so fucking hard to stay mad at him. Maybe it’s the eye patch. “Natasha, I’m sorry. You trusted me with this…” 

“So how come you didn’t trust me?” She hisses. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You went to Steve. You said, you didn’t know who to trust.” 

Fury pauses a moment. Considers. “I’m sorry Natasha.” 

“Whatever.” She slides down the transport bench, getting as far as she can from the others. “I need to make a call.” 

When it’s quiet, when she has two minutes to herself. When Steve and Maria are talking and she can be sure they aren’t paying too much attention, Natasha dials his number. “It’s me. I need you to get somewhere safe, OK? Just lay low until you hear from me. And… if you don’t hear back in 24 hours go to ground. I know that’s not what you want to hear but I need you to do it. Do it for me, danger boy.” 

# 

Matt is sleeping when she arrives. 

The door on the roof is unlocked and she slips through whisper quiet. The only light inside is the purple and white flickering across the living room furniture from the billboard, the shadows at the top of the stairs are deep and dark. Gripping the wooden railing, Natasha steps toe to heel down each wooden step, making no sound. She pauses at the base of the stairs. Looks around the open floorplan of the loft apartment and breathes it in. Matt’s decorated, since the last time she was here. Assuming he picked everything out himself, she’d describe his taste as mid century modern and minimalist. There’s a brown leather sofa, low and deep. Two black leather side chairs, and a low oval table. Behind the sofa he’s designated a small dining space with a round white table and a few chairs. There’s a small red cabinet on the back wall that stands out because of its colour. 

Natasha hesitates at the threshold to the bedroom. It’s been a long time. The sliding door is partially open and she slips through. The bedroom is dark, Matt lays on his side. She watches him. His chest rise and fall with a soft and even rhythm. Natasha pulls off her jacket and drops it to a crumpled pile on the floor. She steps out of her worn blue jeans and pads to the side of the bed. She pulls the blanket back and slips between the sheets. The mattress holds the warmth of Matt’s body. She burrows inside, presses her stomach along the curve of his back. Matt shifts, his head turns, his hair brushes her face. 

“‘Tasha?” He rolls towards her, hands find her shoulders and move up to her face. He touches her hair lightly, like he’s not sure if she’s real. She watches him. The way his softly meshed eyelashes part, his brown eyes open to the dark. His mouth opens and he wets his lips with a flick of his tongue. He’s searching her, but not with his eyes. His head tilts, he listens, he breathes her in. “You’re OK?” 

She nods against the pillow. 

“I’m glad you’re here.” He says. 

She nods again, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “Me too,” she whispers. 

Her hand finds his chest in the dark. The mottled, raised flesh she can feel through the softness of his cotton t-shirt. “I’m glad you’re here, too.” 

His eyebrows purse quizzically but he doesn’t press. Natasha pulls him closer, rests her cheek against his shoulder, the top of her head fitting against the curve of his throat. He presses his lips to her hair, pulls her close until she disappears into his warmth.   
Protected.  
Safe. 

#

Natasha stirs, the bed is cold. 

Soft yellow light filters in the window. She takes in the open closet with it’s gradient of grey to black suits. The pyramid clock on the nightstand displays the time. It’s early yet. A stack of books next to the clock are labelled with braille on the spines and covers. There’s no lamp, no other furniture in the room. The coverlet is dark grey. Maybe it’s the temperature of the light that makes the room feel warm, but there’s no heat in it. 

Sounds are emanating from further in the apartment. Comforting as they are strange in their modainity. Natasha peels out of the sheets and shrugs into a button down of Matt’s she finds hanging in the closet. 

He’s spinning around in the kitchen like a dancer. Two steps to the stove where steam is rising into the hood fan, two steps to the sink to deposit something there with a metallic clang, one step and a twirl backwards to the shelf to pull down plates. Natasha pads quietly into the living room and he pauses, turns his head towards her and smiles. 

This is it. 

The enormity of it slams into her so hard she exhales all of the air in her lungs in a single huff, momentarily breathless. She grips the back of a dining chair for support. 

Matt frowns. “What is it?” 

It’s everything, it’s all of it. It’s looking at him, standing in the kitchen, bathed in warm morning light with his hair standing on end and still mussed from the pillow. He’s wearing a wrinkled columbia t-shirt and sweatpants. He hasn’t shaved in days and he looks underslept. He’s been worried about her. But now, with her here, he’s lighter. He’s relieved. It’s the smell of cooking eggs. The sound of a running dishwasher. It’s the shuffling of his bare feet on the wood floor. It’s the gooseflesh rising on her legs as she stands there in nothing but his shirt. It’s how normal this is. How good it feels. 

“I, uh, I made us omelettes,” he gestures sheepishly with a spatula. Natasha shakes herself free of the moment, lowers herself into the dining chair and clutches her knees to her chest, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder. 

“Didn’t know you could cook?” 

“You should probably wait until you’ve tried it to declare I can cook,” he laughs, open and honest and so free with his smile. “Living on my own has provided an abundance of learning opportunities.” 

“I thought you were planning to subsist on Thai takeout from the corner.” 

“I did. For about a month. Turns out it’s not a great plan. I gained five pounds and a credit card worth of debt.” 

“Time to learn to cook.”

“Exactly,” he smiles, setting a plate down in front of her. He makes a detour back to the counter for cutlery before settling in the chair opposite. 

Natasha takes a bite, he definitely can cook. 

“Are we going to talk about what’s going on?” He asks when the omelette has mostly disappeared from her plate. 

“Not going on anymore.” 

“That’s encouraging.” 

Natasha counts atrocities on her fingers. “SHIELD was Hydra, everything I knew was a lie, I got shot, we took them down, I burned all my covers.” 

Matt considers for a moment while she takes the last bite. “What will you do now?” He finally asks, voice very soft and quiet. 

She shrugs. “What I always do. I start over.” 

Matt doesn’t seem to be hungry. He’s still pushing eggs from one side of his plate to the other. The smell seems to be bothering him now, he pushes the plate away. “I read the SHIELD files.” 

“There were a lot.” 

“I skimmed.” 

“Then you know.” 

“Know what?” 

“What I’ve done.” 

Matt’s eyes drift to the table, he shifts in his chair and gestures towards her with one hand to emphasise his next words. “I read all of those files Natasha — skimmed them — and the one thing I’m sure of is that you didn’t break my trust. There was no mention of Matt Murdock.” 

She starts to shake her head. “Matt…” 

“The things you did, you were doing a job. You had orders.” 

“Matt,” she reaches across the table and puts a hand over his to still it. “I lied to you.” 

Matt gets very still, his head tilts to the side, his fingers are twitching like they do when he wishes he was wearing his glasses. “There is a file. It was classified. I tried to keep it safe.” 

“It wasn’t part of the leak.” 

“SHIELDS former director, Nick Fury, has it. There was a chance Hydra had breached it. There was a chance it would be leaked with the rest. I took that chance. I got lucky.” 

He extracts his hand from hers. 

“You got lucky…” 

“I didn’t know, when I leaked them, that your file wasn’t with the rest. I did it anyway.” 

Matt considers this a moment. He gets up. Carries his plate to the counter and then throws it in the sink. Natasha wets her lips. 

“You promised me. You said you would keep it safe.” 

“I didn’t know what they were. I didn’t…” 

“You trusted them? SHEILD?” 

“I did.” 

“Then you were a fool.” 

It’s easier, now, to do what she has to do. It’s easier with the anger there, the shame. 

“I just thought you should know.” She says. Standing. Walking back to the bedroom where her clothes are. 

“You had no business keeping a file on me in the first place Natasha!” He calls after her. 

Natasha pulls on her clothes. She leaves Matt’s shirt crumpled on the floor. All she can think about is how quickly she can get out of here. 

Matt takes a moment in the kitchen. Seething maybe. Collecting himself. He appears at the sliding door looking apologetic. 

“Natasha…” 

“No.” She cuts him off, shrugging on her jacket. She pushes past him in the doorway and he tries to grab her arm. Natasha jumps back from his grasp. He tries to block her with his body and she ducks under his arms. Matt spins, hands up, trying to look apologetic with his stupid puppy face as he follows her towards the stairs. 

“Natasha I’m sorry. I was angry, but I didn’t…”   
She spins at the top of the stairs, trying to keep him in the periphery of her vision so that she doesn’t see the open, pleading expression in his eyes. If she looks, she’s done. “You and your life, Matt.” she says, “Are safer without me in it.” 

“Natasha. Don’t go like this.” He calls. “Not like this.” 

And maybe it’s better this way. Natasha thinks as she descends the fire escape to street level, not sparing a glance over her shoulder for the building she’s just left. Maybe it’s better if she leaves in a huff. Let him remember their last encounter with finality. Not with questions. This way he won’t worry as much. He won’t call. This way he’ll leave her to her own devices, and she’ll have an excuse to stay away. 

Matt doesn’t want me, she’ll tell herself. 

Matt doesn’t want me now. 


End file.
